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Belle wanders the streets of Storybrooke without fear. All the monsters that could do her harm have been tamed. She thinks of the Evil Queen, locked in the cage of her own son's love and trying so hard to be the hero; she thinks of the Captain with his heart, all rotten and full of holes, and how he tries to mend it for Emma Swan; she thinks of her own monster at home sleeping in their bed while she walks, night after night, along the sidewalks that link all these monsters together.
They do not pose a threat to her, not anymore.
This is what she thinks.
But her feet take her to the water, and at the water he waits to drown her.
--
"Little lost lamb, out stumbling around in the dark," he says, grinning at her. "Why ever aren't you home, tucked up safely in bed, darling?"
"I don't think that's any of your business, Captain," she says, tightly, and she stares at him long and hard because she is not afraid. He should know that. She aims to ensure he understands that, and she takes a step forward, towards him. She will not run.
"Trouble in paradise, perhaps?" His smirk is wicked even in the muted moonlight, and he turns his head ever so slightly so that his white teeth catch the rays of the streetlamp to their left. She crosses her arms over her chest and hugs herself tightly. She shivers just enough to be noticeable so that he knows that she does not feel defensive, not in the slightest. It’s the cold breeze over the water that chills her bones, not him. Never him.
"I suppose you would know," she says, but she stops there. She does not have it in her to be that cruel.
"Your crocodile is not known for keeping his women happy," is his rejoinder. She sucks in air as though she has been punched, and she glares when he laughs at the sound.
"Touched a nerve, did I, lass?"
"Not at all. I'm perfectly content," she replies.
"Perfectly content women do not walk the streets in the middle of the night and humor drunk pirate captains with conversations," he says, walking closer to her, all shadows and leather and now she can smell the liquor on his breath.
"And I suppose you are the expert on perfectly content women then, Captain?"
He looks at her for a moment--
No, he looks through her for a moment. She can see the flashes of golden hair in the sunlight as they flicker through his eyes.
"But you," he says finally, "are the expert on broken men, are you not?"
She does not know what to say to that. She feels, often, that she is an expert at nothing. Every attempt she makes to understand, every victory she wins, every time she thinks she's come to understand, she is thrown for another loop, sold another lie, and fed what she wants to hear rather than the truth. No, not an expert. Not even close.
The Captain stumbles closer to her, and she can see, even through the gloom, how his face has crumbled into misery like rock beaten back by the pounding waves of the ocean.
"Please," he says, reaching for her but stopping short of actually laying a hand on her, "please, Belle, fix me. Tell me what I have to do to deserve--"
He breaks off with a growl that is most certainly covering a sob and retreats back, pulling a flask from his coat and taking a long drink.
Belle's arms drop to her sides, and she takes a cautious step forward. His head shoots up at her movement, his eyes narrowed, and she holds out a placating hand, remembering when she had watched Ruby approach a frightened, angry dog behind the diner once. Killian Jones, she thinks, is very much an angry, frightened dog, and she must approach him slowly and carefully. Or perhaps, part of her suggests, not at all, but she is the brave girl; the girl with a heart, and she will not leave him here to wallow in this mess he's made of himself. He is capable of great evil, she knows, if left to his own devices in this state. And, no, it isn't her responsibility, but yes, it is. This inner tug of war is completely hidden as her steady hand stays outstretched in front of her.
"So brave, darling," he snarls, "to approach me when you are so defenceless."
Belle turns her arm so that her palm is facing upwards. "I think, Captain, that you are mistaken about just exactly who is defenceless here."
"Damn you," he hisses as though he had tried to choke the words down but they had escaped anyway.
"Once again, Captain, I think you are mistaken," she says, and she isn't sure where she's going with this. No two monsters are alike when wounded, she knows, and she's only ever really cared for one. This is new territory for her. New and frightening.
He moves toward her quickly, and she steps back in surprise. Given how he had stumbled before, she had assumed he was too drunk to move that fast. She was wrong.
He grabs her hand, fingers grinding her bones together, and he jerks her to him. She slams into his chest, and he holds her there so tightly that she does not even bother to contemplate escape. Not just yet.
"Does this thrill you, love? Taunting and tempting monsters? Hm? Does it set a fire in your belly to know you have this power?" He chuckles low and dark, and the smell of alcohol is overwhelming. She wants to close her eyes, but she stares up at him defiantly instead. She will not be cowed by his antics.
"Oh yes, I think it does. What a brave little thing you are, running headlong into danger. Ah, but that's what you desire isn't it? The danger," he whispers the last in her ear and trails his lips down her neck very softly. And she is surprised, again, because it would make more sense to bruise her, to bite, to draw blood. Wouldn't it?
But she remembers broken teacups and flowers and gentle arms carrying her, and she thinks, no, tenderness is the way of monsters, is it not?
She places her free hand over his heart, feels its erratic beating, and sighs. He will think it is pity, she knows, even though it isn't.
Sure enough, he whirls her away from his body with another angry snarl. He is panting, and his face is flushed with drink; a wild beast on a chain, she thinks.
He stands tall, looking at her in an attempt to pick up the tattered pieces of his dignity.
"Does he make you feel brave, Belle?"
And he laughs as he stumbles away, leaving her alone in the dark with her hand outstretched and empty.
--
She looks at Rumpelstiltskin's sleeping form; his face is not peaceful even in sleep, and the shadows that the curtains, obscuring the moonlight, throw over his face are suddenly symbolic, thoughts of his secrets and lies running through her head.
But she's used to that. She knows this monster. He is familiar. Each line and shadow on his face has been traced by her careful fingers. His lies do not scare her. She's not sure if they ever did.
No, she thinks, I do not feel brave. Not anymore. There is safety in the familiar.
And wearily she tucks herself into bed, presses herself against his side, and falls asleep with her head on her monster's shoulder.